Page 50 of Our Radiant Embers

“Close your eyes,” I said instead.

“Is this a Star Wars moment?” he asked, and I chuckled, the sound almost swallowed by another bang from upstairs and Jack’s and Laurie’s voices outside.

“The force will be with you, young Skywalker.” I laced our fingers. “Close your eyes.”

He didn’t—kept watching me with an intensity that lit the ends of my nerves on fire. Breathing was a luxury best served in measured increments.

“What?” I asked.

Adam’s grin burst into brightness, a contrast to the hazy light around us. “Didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“You bring out the best in me,” I said dryly even though my pulse had kicked up a notch. “Now close your fucking eyes.”

This time, he did.

“Thank you.” I allowed myself just a second to take him in—dark lashes and pale skin, his straight nose and the curve of his bottom lip. “All right, now try to focus on your magic. Think of it like a light that surrounds you, and you’re trying to gather enough of it in your hand that it’s like…It should be the perfect amount for comfortably reading a book rather than, say, performing heart surgery.”

Adam’s brow furrowed even as his eyes remained closed. “A light that surrounds me?”

I gave his fingers a light squeeze. “Just try, please? You meditate, right?” Most of us did, but for the truly powerful, it was an essential part of controlling their magic. “Think of it like that. Slow, regular breaths, letting your thoughts come and go.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his face relaxing as he nodded. I matched my breathing to his—inhale for the count of six, exhale for the count of six, pause for four. Again. My pulse slowed down, and I closed my eyes as well, the construction noise above us slipping away. When I blinked, the glow around Adam was like a starburst.

I’d never done this before. I’d never tried to pull someone into my reality where magic turned visible.

“Open your eyes,” I said, barely more than a whisper.

“Okay.” He did, then swallowed. “How…?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Breathe. I remembered how and raised our joined hands. “It listens to you, so call it. Start with just a tendril of light at first, no more than that.”

He watched me for a beat, something heavy in his eyes. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly. A moment later, light began pooling around our hands—dim at first, then brighter and brighter.

“That’s enough,” I murmured.

Magic had a will of its own. With less capable mages, it could buck and twist, trying to break free of human control like a wild horse. I’d seen it happen a couple of times—a short-lived burst of torrential rain instead of a gentle drizzle meant to water a lawn, a gust of wind that scattered bricks like legos when it had been called upon to stack them into a neat wall.

But Adam’s control was magnificent. His magic stilled, calm and obedient, and together, we reached towards the electric coil.

“Weave the light through the copper,” I told him.

He slid me a sideways glance before he focused on the exposed burner. A thin rope of light snaked out, connected with the copper wire, and zipped along its length like a spark along a fuse. I held my breath. Please work.

I’d only tried it with our own electric stove so far, shying away from experimenting on an expensive induction model. The advance for the project had come in last week, though, and induction technology was not only more efficient—it already looked deceptively close to magic for the scientifically uninitiated.

“Like this?” Adam asked, so soft I barely caught it.

“Perfect. Double back once you reach the centre.”

“Okay.”

More magic twined around the copper until the glow around our hands was nearly gone. The end of the light rope faded into nothing, and Adam looked at me, waiting. While his face was calm, his grip on my fingers was vice-like.

With my free hand, I pulled the plug, the knob still turned to medium heat. Please, please work.

The electric coil remained lit up.

I turned down the heat, and the magic glow dimmed. Turned up the heat, and it brightened.

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